


Dionysus

by briadakota



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Depictions of Greek gods/goddesses, Dom Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Dream Team SMP Roleplay (Video Blogging RPF), King GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Mild Degradation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Not to be generalised, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Spelling mistakes most likely, Stomach Bulging, Sub GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Subspace, Subtle Manipulation, Tears, Top Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), but also kind of not, dream has a god complex, mild bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briadakota/pseuds/briadakota
Summary: “Do you trust me?”George’s eyes are red wine and licorice. He smiles, and there’s a prophecy on his lips.“No. Do you trust me?”There’s silence, and the lovers have long since known their fate.“No.” Dream whispers.Kismet is sealed in tarnished royalty and Aphrodite bids them farewell, a night of what could have been is theirs to hold onto until dawn rises.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 302





	Dionysus

**Author's Note:**

> hello thank you SM for the wonderful comments on my last work, i want to kiss u all

A crown; woven from cosmic gold and threaded with strings of silver, rising and falling like Luna’s eloquent ocean in melodious spires. At the top of each spire and the heart of each grid, a diamond of ice and azure lustres. A crown; fear and justice sealed in riches, the one who adorns such a garment untouchable and immortal. Though to the king, with his crown of golden snakes and silver tongues nestled in rich mahogany, it was all rather objectionable; for the king is not ignorant to the fallen angel who once held this crown, nor to the bloodshed that binds its rule.

A balcony of stone sighs in the breeze, it’s opening arched like the spires of the king’s crown. Roses of red and gold crawl up the walls and labyrinthine patterns embellish its scarred surface, tragedy and sin running deep within its ancient soul. Beyond, an oak path stretches for miles, a wooden creature who has seen monarchs weep and gods perish, pale timber entangling with dense vegetation and strange buildings. Apollo kisses muted honey over the land of entrenched chaos and the king feels his crown grow heavy with mendacity and barbarity, slender fingers laced in white caress its rough surface as he holds it in his hands, the dying sun casting delicate maple on lapis and silver.

George is a pretty man, a beautiful thing of blackberries and cocoa, lips of red wine and skin of molten silk. He looks pretty in a crown and pretty on a throne, a gorgeous crystalline figurehead, a king bound by golden threads. Sometimes, the king desires to do more than just sit pretty, sometimes he desires to rule this land drenched in velvet corruption, but status is all that is promised by a mere crown; true power shall never grace the ivory surface of a pawn. 

The royal mantle trailing from his shoulders is a rich blue of silk velvet and pools at his feet, fastening at his chest with a teal diamond hanging from strings of gold. His neck is stifled by a dense collar of white fur that also adorns the edges of his robe, matching the lace gloves and blouse detailed with a long cotton cravat. George utterly despises the frills and the ruffles, the whole outfit is awfully heavy and he has no choice but to waddle around like a toddler, absolutely sweltering under the insufferable heat of his cloak. But the king wears a crown and may do nothing but complain, as crowns are for pretty puppets kissed into silence. So George sets the crystal contract back on his head and peers out into the world, picking a gold rose littered with thorns and watching over a land that does not belong to him.

“You okay?”

George doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t need to. He’d recognise that voice in the skies of heaven and the caverns of hell, a dulcet harmony underlined by oak and vanilla.

He hums, still looking out over the land washed golden. 

“I’m thinking.”

The fallen angel steps closer, his own cloak of velvet emerald gracing the floor, though it is not nearly as royal as the king’s. When he is beside George, the difference between the two men is almost laughable. For the king, as royal as he may be, is a small, delicate man; with a frame far from threatening and limbs all but skin and bone, he is the last person who should’ve been sought to be monarch, and Apollo knows it. The man beside him is tall and lean, he would be a better ruler, runes of calamity would inscribe a golden crown, but he needs not a crown to maintain his threads, so he allows George to sit pretty on the throne of beautiful chicanery. 

“You seem to do that a lot these days.”

He does, and both of them know why. Something about the man’s intentional ignorance begins to get under George’s skin and he turns on his heel, royal blue flaring around him as he brushes past velvet, stomping towards the door. 

“Shit, Dream, I wonder why.” He snaps on his way out, letting the heavy oak swing into its frame with a crash.

Dream raises his eyebrows and turns to observe the now empty room, a single gold rose lying torn on the floor. He sighs, picking up the rose and throwing it over the balcony. With each day that George grows more restless with his docile position under the crown, the mistake Dream made of dethroning Eret grows more evident. Eret was silent and pliant, he sat pretty and did as he was told. He didn’t start arguments and he didn’t have tantrums, he was well behaved, as a pawn should be. George is defiant and obstinate, he sits pretty but frowns about it. He argues and complains at every opportunity he gets, having been caught sneaking out in a ragged brown cape twice. Eret is a better pawn than George, that fact is blatantly obvious, but Dream doesn’t love Eret like he loves George, and maybe he’s weak for it, maybe it’s pathetic, but George is red wine and Dream can’t stand to be sober, so he smooths his velvet green and sets off to find the king who was never meant to be.

George is picking white wine roses when Dream finds him. The garden is washed with subdued gold and the flowers glow with their various shades of luminosity, so beautiful and otherworldly, an aviary of paradise in a poisoned land. There is a moment of silence as the king and the angel stare in paradise, Apollo and Selene cross paths as gold melts to silver and the sky bleeds ink. 

Dream is the first to breathe speech into tranquility.

“You’re beautiful.” The angel is not known for truths, but the wine plays tricks on his tongue. 

George does look beautiful. His features are dark under the midnight but his skin glows pearly with the moon, lips dusted with cherry. His crown glistens opaque hues of blue and silver, nothing short of Astraios’ creation.

George’s cheeks grow hot and he looks down at the milky petals in his hands, breathing a soft laugh, though it is tinged with bitterness. 

Dream sighs and takes a pale hand in his, interlocking their fingers, craving the touch.

“Walk with me.” 

George furrows his brows. “My roses-”

“George.”

Reluctantly, he sets aside his roses and lets Dream lead him down the cobbled path through their garden of eden, incandescent in the twilight. He can’t help but steal glances at the man; hair golden and cascading, eyes sharp and smoky green. If George had the courage, he would return his earlier compliment. It has been a few long days since the two revelled in one another, and they each drown in the silent safety of their sealed hands, being unable to stay bitter under the constellations that whisper for Aphrodite. 

“Let me rule.” George mumbles as they walk. He can feel Dream’s eyes on him; eyes that have seen nations burn and soldiers fall, he can’t find it within himself to meet them.

“Why?”

George turns to face the man and their hands fall, searching for leniency in misted green. He finds nothing but golden selfishness.

“This place, Dream, it’s suffering.” He picks at the lace of his gloves, fidgeting under a harsh gaze. It’s a bizarre sight; the king so small under someone without a crown, but to those not graced by foolishness, the king might as well be a dog on a leash.

Dream takes restless hands laced in white and thumbs gentle circles over the palms.

“You want to save this place from me?” 

George nods, and it’s halfway to the truth.

Dream exhales softly, pressing a kiss to pale hands and smiling against lace when George grumbles and tries to pull away, a pigmented blush scrawling across his cheeks.

“Oh, Georgie,” he murmurs, rubbing little circles into his palms again. “You’re so sweet. Don’t worry about it, I know I look like the bad guy at the moment, but I’ll make sure this land flourishes, I’ll do it for you, yeah?”

His voice is so honyed, the warm tones of vanilla and oak make themselves known once again. Pretty lies and flowery illusions, so sweet on his tongue. George almost wants to believe him.

Perhaps it’s the Chardonnay, or perhaps it’s a selfish desire for privilege, sin blossoms at their fingertips and George lets sugar of lead slip down his throat. Kissed into silence, yet again. Though really, who would he be kidding if he said he didn’t crave the virulence? Certainly not Aphrodite. 

George thinks about her as he leads Dream down stone hallways dappled with moonlight, he thinks about her satin of snow and hair of scarlet, running deep in the soil and whispering high in the clouds. He wonders if her pretty face is twisted in a frown, but this is her doing, is it not? Aphrodite’s potent lovers, nothing short of reckless ecstasy.

Once the pair are in George’s bedroom of gold, stone and chandeliers, George finally relaxes, wine on his tongue without shackles of guilt and reason. 

Dream huffs a laugh as he watches George toss his priceless mantle on the floor and set his crown on an oak drawer with a grateful sigh.

“Why’d you bring me here? Are we going to fuck?” He winks and wriggles out of his own cape, wearing a shit eating grin all the while. 

George frowns, though it’s not very threatening with crimson adorning his features. 

“ _ No, _ it’s just warmer inside.” He emphasises the  _ no _ like an indignant child, and he lies like one too. He had felt vulnerable to the voices of reason outside, held accountable under Astraios’ constellations. It’s easier to drown in a room alone with toxicity, and toxicity, with his gold and green, can hardly blame him.

They stare, beholders of one another. They’ve touched before; kissed and giggled under a twinkling sky, but lately, something has been different. Dream has been different. His eyes are narrower and full of ash, scars have collected on his sculpted figure. He looks dangerous, and it falls bittersweet on George’s lips. The latter grows irritated with Dream’s faux innocence, heart wrenching as he recalls countless lonely nights where Dream was off doing god knows what, Aphrodite surely laughing at the agonised lust of a king bound to glass promises by his lover of hellish gold. His features quirk into a scowl and he pushes an accusatory finger against Dream’s chest, digging for a heart under fabric and flesh. 

“You’re never here.” His eyes are angry but his voice wavers, pain ebbing through his porcelain.

“George-”

“You’re never here. I always wait, and you’re never here.” His voice drops to a whisper as Dream takes hold of his slim wrist. “I’m so fucking lonely. Do you know that? Do you care?”

Dream knows. Of course he knows, he was there when Aphrodite wrote them as lovers. She had told him he was selfish, and he had told her he knew. But he doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to hear how George hurts, it will tear his carefully stitched soul to pitiful shreds. So he cups George’s face and pulls him up to his lips, licking and sucking, kissing the hurt and the hate back down his throat.

George lets himself fall against bolted oak, lets himself be silenced. It’s not toxicity when you crave it, it’s not hurt when you confide in it; those are the lies he will believe tonight, the lies that shall save him from the devil on his lips.

“You’re so fucking selfish.” He breathes against Dream, hot air in his mouth and teeth on his plush bottom lip.

“I know.” Dream whispers, pulling back as the string of saliva that connects their lies catches the light of the oil lamps, bathing the room in golden maple. “Let me make it up to you. I can make you feel good.”

George pauses, thinking of their endless nights of touching. Wine and cocoa melting on their tongues, never enough.

“Better than before?”

Dream laughs and takes George’s hands, dancing a senseless rhythm before whirling around and pulling him close, George’s ankles hitting the panel of the bed.

“Better than before.” 

He sounds like sugar and sin as he pushes George away, the king falling into sheets of silk and satin, red like his slicked lips, a promise sealed as he is engulfed by crimson and rose.

Dream pulls out a chair of mahogany from underneath a desk littered with crystal glasses and half empty bottles, lolling in it with his legs jutted out and an arm thrown over the back. Unable to keep the smirk from his lips, he looks like he expects a lap dance. 

From his position on the bed, George frowns. He props himself up on his elbows and swings his legs to touch the floor, greeted by a dismissive wave.

“Nuh-uh.” Dream clicks his tongue, pouring himself a glass of wine. Crimson swims thick inside iridescence and it reminds him of blood. “Clothes off, your highness.” He drawls, a lazy smirk gracing his sharp, sinful features.

A furious blush crawls up George’s neck and he stares with his jaw hanging slack, stuttering to no avail. Dream sits in that damn chair like he owns the fucking world.

And he does. 

He looks like the lord and the devil, chains of woven silver roped around his neck, grazing the unbuttoned edges of an inky satin blouse tucked loosely into equally as dark trousers that cling to his legs for dear life. Golden, velvety wisps hang in front of eyes that set alight souls, they fall to the side as Dream cocks his head, still grinning blood and knives like Satan himself.

“Baby?”

George doesn’t process what was said, the rasp and the drawl, the wine and the honey, it goes straight to his dick and he clutches at the sheets to stop his thighs searching to cause friction. 

Aphrodite certainly loves her sinners.

“Yes, I’m- I’ll- yes.” He stammers, flushed face smouldering as he attempts to unbutton and unzip articles of clothing with quivering hands.

Dream is watching and waiting and drinking, blood and velvet on his tongue until George lies naked and vulnerable wrapped in silk, sprawled out and aching to be ruined. Dream gnaws on his lips and rakes his eyes over the sight; it’s been lifetimes since he’s had such a pretty plaything to break, and oh, how he aches to do so. He’s good at that, good at ruining and breaking and tormenting. Good at touching soft and speaking filthy, poisoning reason inch by inch until his toy is nothing but a mindless, twitching little thing. And then he brands their soul; makes them scream his name, makes them cry tears of gold. He loves it, lives for it, it makes him feel like a god, which he is all but. 

“Dream…” the sound is so achingly pathetic that it pulls him out of his head. His eyes fall on George, fisting the sheets and squeezing his thighs together, little body tensing in an effort to be still. 

Dream sips from his glass, longing to touch and kiss and hold, but George looks so pretty like this, so he grits his teeth and savours the sin.

“ _ Good boy _ , aren’t you so pretty?” He coos, watching in darkened thrill as George’s head falls back against the pillow, hips jerking ever so slightly and chest shuddering. Dream thinks it’s wonderful; the way he looks like he could cum right this second, and he hasn’t even spared the poor thing his touch yet. “You’re quite delightful, you know.” 

George is glaring up at him again, and for all the death and despair that Dream fosters, he can’t fight the painful endearment that scalds his heart like hot oil. George may be caustic and contentious, bittersweet with his soft eyes and silver tongue, but Dream would be lying to Aphrodite herself if he said he didn’t revel in the man’s fire. And how he would hate to see her lovely face scowl.

“Are you going to leave me lying here like a fucking fish or what?” George grumbles, bold with his words but small with his voice, still agonisingly embarrassed by their stark contrast in clothing, and lack of.

Dream laughs, the sound bounces around his glass of red wine velvet. 

“I could.”

He could. George’s breath hitches and he’s made painfully aware of the fact that his kingship is a mere title. Dream could get up and walk out of the room, leaving George a blank canvas. He could, and they both know he would.

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t leave.”

“Why?”

Dream is coaxing his fire to ash and George can no longer find the strength to fight it. He flops back down with a soft thud and stares up at the ceiling. Angels captured in oil for timeless lifetimes adorn the stone patches between panels of gold.

“Fucking hell Dream,” he exclaims in a frustrated breath, the sound of more wine being poured tickles his ears. “ _ Because  _ I crave you. Every single day. I crave everything about you.” His eyes draw nonsensical lines over oil and paint. “I dream about you, and it sickens me to wake up. So don’t leave. Please. I need you. Need you to keep dreaming.”

There is silence for timeless seconds and Dream curses his silly heart for aching. He won’t leave. He could, he  _ would _ , but he won’t. Maybe. 

He sips from his glass and the velvet wine washes his unease away, drowning his sorrows and his scars. 

“I won’t leave.”

“I know.”

Tonight, the king and the angel shall believe their paper truths. 

“You’re okay?” 

George smiles up at his angels and closes his eyes. For all the blood that he spills and the souls that he burns, Dream treads so carefully. He’s afraid. Afraid of burning the soul he doesn’t deserve to touch.

When George lifts his head, Dream’s eyes are millponds and lily pads, lips pulled under his canine and brows knotted in discontent. There’s a single silver thread crossed over the golden devil, and George just has to cut it.

So he does. Pleasure over reason, always. He wonders if this is how Aphrodite intended it to be.

“I’m okay.” He speaks the promise into existence. Perhaps it’s a curse. He doesn’t know the difference.

Dream tilts his head and muses over the words, both of them know they can’t escape each other now.

“Touch yourself for me.” He rasps, throwing one leg over the other and downing his glass.

George feels himself burn an impossible crimson. This is cruel, and he loves it.

He struggles to sit up, limbs trembling from the effects of staring at the angel faced devil for precious seconds too long. His elbows shake in effort to hold his torso up and he stares, eyes vacant and dumb.

Dream sneers; cruel and cold. 

“Aww, poor baby doesn’t know how to touch himself?” He coos. Soft, but only for a fleeting second before his mouth curls into a scowl and his eyes narrow. “How fucking useless are you George?”

George whines and throws an arm over his heated face.

“I’m- it’s-”

“Are you embarrassed?” Dream leans forward in his chair, poison and pleasure. “Is that what it is? Are you embarrassed to show me how much of a  _ whore  _ you are?” He spits the degradation with gold and wine on his tongue. 

The insult pierces George’s flesh with little regard for royalty, it feels good, feels like raw gold. He falls to ash, letting a small gasp of affirmation slip past his lips and wrapping slender fingers around his cock.

Dream smiles.

So easy. So royal.

“I used to do this,” George whispers, stroking himself and letting his thighs fall apart, propped up on one hand. “Used to do this when you weren’t here.” 

Dream drags his tongue over sharp teeth, struggling to suppress a groan at the thought. He imagines his little king sprawled out on the bed; body jerking as he gets off to the thought of him. It’s lovely and pathetic, meant for his eyes only. A deep, jagged sense of possessiveness crawls through his veins; dark and smoky, mixing with the wine to create a potent, angry desire to claim. During any other day, he would’ve forced this feeling down his throat, forced himself to be civil, but tonight was different. Tonight, Aphrodite shall dance with the devil, and Dream shall have George right where he’s always wanted him. 

Pretty whines begin to fill the room, bouncing off the walls and sending chilling waves down Dream’s spine. Gorgeous little  _ ah ah ah _ ’s have him all but drooling, reaching for an empty bottle to white knuckle. He watches George’s hips roll, his bottom lip is pinned under his teeth and his eyebrows are knitted upwards, eyes drifting to centre and then back again, desperately trying to hold himself together. 

“Faster.”

And George does. Of course he does, he would go to hell and back for Dream. He trails his hand up and down, thumbing over his leaking head and calling out for Dream, hips stuttering, desperate for the other’s touch. 

“Dream, Dre-  _ Dream-” _ He cuts himself off with a long whine, head falling back and legs beginning to shake, thighs trying to close. He can taste nirvana, he can  _ taste _ it, it’s so close and so golden and so-

“Stop.” 

George curses himself for being so foolish, for thinking an angel so fallen would allow him simple pleasure. Agony sears under his skin like livewires as he slowly, painfully takes his hand away, breathing hard, feeling faint. 

“Selfish.” He mumbles, stating the obvious as if Dream cares. He doesn’t, and it’s beautifully evident in his razored smile. 

“Start again for me, sweetheart.” His head lolls in an open palm, eyes lazy and grinning like a cheshire cat. He’s pretty, and he burns. Just as sin blooms to.

The pair continue their game of sin and gold; George thrashing and moaning and pleading, each time he’s about to reach paradise it’s snatched from his lips, and the bittersweet torment starts all over again. All the while, Dream watches, agonisingly hard but deciding that it’s worth the torture he is graced with observing. 

After what feels like hours, George’s porcelain finally shatters and tears begin to flow, salty with too much teasing and too little touching. He hiccups and sniffles as his body shudders with each aching sob, thighs burning and arm aching. 

“Please, please, can- I-” He arches his spine and comes back down again in jerky, unnatural movements, lips parted and pretty pink, face silver with tears. “Dream, fu-ck you, _ fuck  _ you-  _ please _ !”

Dream, with his utterly fucking enraging self assurance, finally decides to spare his pretty baby some clemency. He staunters over to the bed, looking down upon the pitiful sight; George’s body writhes like he’s being attacked, tears rolling down into his open mouth. Dream laces his fingers in the man’s hair, scratching at his scalp ever so softly, and is met with lustrous chocolate eyes, filmy with tears and lust, a silent, screaming plea smouldering within their depths. Dream smiles, and it’s so full of warmth. For a second there is nothing but untouchable love and they revel in what could be.

“Cum for me, darling.”

George doesn’t need to be told twice. He comes with a broken sob, hips jerking frantically and little fists scrambling for something, anything to keep him afloat. Ribbons of white land hot on his stomach and his body shudders violently, soft sighs of contentment falling past his lips when his eyes finally roll back into place.

Dream lets him come down from his high, carding his fingers through silk woven hair and whispering gentle praise. He’s patient, though of course, it doesn’t last long.

When George starts to blink and stir, Dream curls his fingers and yanks on tousled locks. Raw possessiveness tangles with harsh desire as he leans down to hover by George’s ear, nearly forgetting his intentions when the man arches and voices a low whine, tinged with all the right shades of agony.

“Thank me.” He hisses in callous sadism, pleasure aching dull in his bones at the way George stifles a little sound of shock. “Thank me for the orgasm I just let you have.”

And George does. He thanks him with pretty whispers and grateful tears. He mumbles nonsensical gratitude and calls him  _ sir _ . It prods at a fire within Dream’s soul, left untouched and ancient for the sake of his delicate mind. Aphrodite warns him with red hot electricity, but he already knows. He’s already letting George drag them both down to undiscovered depths; dismal to assure no man dares to venture, but where subdued light prevails nonetheless. They will drown, but it’s okay. So long as the ebony lustre illustrates them as the heathens they were written to be.

Dream presses a kiss to the smaller man’s temple, leaving his eyes open to watch chocolate velvet flutter shut and smoky lashes grace pale skin, murmuring silken affection.

“Wait here for me Georgie, I’ll be back in a few seconds, okay?” 

He’s by the door, and then he’s gone. George is alone again. 

He shudders, suddenly bitterly aware of his disrobed figure. The oil lamp spills amber and he follows it to the mural on the ceiling, beautiful, though slightly more muted than when Dream was here.

When the man returns, George is exactly where he left him. Pristine body of vanilla and cream inundated in crimson silk. There’s still pools of iridescent white on his stomach and Dream smiles. Filthy. 

George lifts his head to stare, brows furrowing.

“Rope.” He notes, evoking a benevolent laugh from Dream, amused by George’s deadpan tone. Indeed, there is a coil of ivory rope in his hands as he makes his way to where George lies.

Dream drags the thin fibres of the rope up George’s body, starting at his right thigh and smirking at the obscene sight of it trailing through milky silver. George squirms, twisting this way and that, responsive and electrified under the scratchy material.

“It looks like your skin, don’t you think?” Dream purrs, not taking his eyes off the rope. “Pretty and pale.” 

George  _ is _ pretty and pale, his body cloudy and dusted carmine around his cheeks, knuckles, knees, and nose. Strawberries and cream. Dream brushes over George’s nipple, rolling it between his thumb and index finger, earning him a stuttered whimper and a little gasping plea. He touches his pretty boy all over; running his fingers along his neck, thumbing over his lips, rubbing circles on his thighs so agonisingly close to his cock that it has the poor man bucking involuntarily. 

“God, George,” Dream breathes and his eyes are tender sin. “you’re so soft, how are you so soft?” He sounds voracious,  _ looks _ voracious with those sharp teeth and eyes of emerald toxins. 

The Chardonnay is bittersweet and George grows agitated, all but wanting Dream to sink his teeth into creamy flesh and devour him alive. 

“Fucking,” he stammers, digging through his nebulous mind for words. “Fucking fuck me! You- you fuck!” 

It burns, and Dream falls in love again. It drowns his heart in ecstasy, but seeps into his blood as poison. It hurts so pretty, like promises broken under moonlight, tears spilled for only Selene to irradiate. But he knows George doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to hear how he hurts. So he lets sin prevail as he grasps the rope.

“Do you trust me?” 

George’s eyes are red wine and licorice. He smiles, and there’s a prophecy on his lips. 

“No. Do you trust  _ me _ ?”

There’s silence, and the lovers have long since known their fate.

“No.” Dream whispers. 

Kismet is sealed in tarnished royalty and Aphrodite bids them farewell, a night of what could have been is theirs to hold onto until dawn rises. 

Dream pats the edge of the bed. 

“Sit up, back facing me sweetheart.” He sounds so pretty and soft, command rolling from his tongue as the most golden of syrups. 

George scrambles to obey, sitting up and crossing his legs in front of him, staring at the ashen wall ahead. White hot static bites under his skin when Dream ghosts his fingertips down pale arms, the touch so barely there that George is wracked with a short, sharp tremor, leaving him gasping softly. There’s fingers brushing against his wrists, and then they’re pushing, bringing his arms behind his back. Rough fibres grace his skin and Dream wraps the rope once, twice, three times around his wrists, pulling the ends into a tight knot. 

George sits pretty, bound to pleasure and sin by ivory fibres. He feels an odd sense of release and tranquility ache dull in his marrow, ebbing into his bloodstream as Dream cards callous fingers through mahogany silk, peppering kisses to his scalp. His presence is so achingly gentle and it burns with the agony of a dying star, soft words leave his mouth and create a haze in George’s mind. He sees amber luminosity and ivory walls, the hues blend and bleed into one another, opium and black magic drown his senses and he feels ever so light.

“Let go.” Dream murmurs into his hair. “I’ll take care of you.”

And so George does. He falls beyond the depths and ebony lambency. He floats, and Dream is there to hold him in dizzying rapture.

Blonde hair haloed in golden light comes into view, falling around a gentle face. Dream crawls in front of him and unbuttons inky satin, muscles ripple under silken skin as he slips his trousers from his legs. George stares, desperate to trace his fingers down the tawny canvas of his chest, straining against the rope. Large hands fall to caress his jaw and Dream sighs, stroking a thumb across pale skin. There’s such an aching tenderness in his eyes and it tugs at George’s heart, unravelling the lambent strings. He can’t bear to witness the vulnerability so he closes his own, leaning forward to capture Dream’s lips.

Lips brush against one another and tongue’s dance; it’s bittersweet but neither of them mind. Dream’s hands find their way to the base of George’s head and he pulls him closer, biting and licking and drinking from him until he’s pulling away and gasping for air. His lips are swollen rose petals, little droplets of blood beginning to dapple their pillowy surfaces. Dream stares, hands still on George’s nape, fingers digging into skin with a burning possessiveness. He looks beautiful. Dream aches for him.

“I- Georgie, I- I-” He can’t get it out, stammering with the effort to get the dreadful words past his tongue.

“Love you.” George slots the words together, and it’s elation. Euphoric even as disgrace stirs in his gut. 

Dream kisses him again. This time it’s different, this time it’s red and angry with desire. He kisses the clarity and the life from George, wrapping his arms around the delicate waist below him, losing the little self restraint he had against bruising snowy skin. It’s pain and it’s pleasure, and George unravels in his arms.

“Drea- Dream, p’ease” He whines into Dream’s mouth, body doused in gasoline. He just needs Dream to strike the match.

Dream’s lips stop moving for a fleeting second, brain registering that George is drowning.

He trails over George’s jaw and down his neck, littering the canvas with flowers of gold and crimson, running his tongue over electrified skin in a not so sincere apology. Pretty bruises fill tender space and Dream moves his hand down to trace small circles over George’s tip, it’s pretty pink, just like his lips. The pace of Dream’s fingers is insufferably slow and George tries to buck up, desperate for some much needed friction as his body shudders and closes in on itself. 

Dream pulls away, grinning blood and wine as George whimpers and rolls his hips. He’s covered in hues of magenta and ruby, cock flushed against his stomach and arms shaking with the desire to reach out. His face is an illustration of ecstasy and Dream wants to paint it with silver tears.

“ _ P’ease!”  _ George wriggles, flopping over onto his stomach and pushing his hips in the air. “It. Do it.” He whines, face buried in fabric.

There’s a chuckle from above him and he’s hoisted up, held close by the rope around his wrists. He convulses with a shaky moan, head falling back onto Dream’s shoulder and grinding against his dick.

“Needy.” Dream breathes into his ear, the strain of suppressing a groan audible in his voice. “So needy. This isn’t very  _ royal  _ of you, is it George?” He trails his spare hand up George’s body, feeling the way his muscles shudder involuntarily. 

George whines again, pushing harder onto Dream and the latter growls, a gravelly sound in the back of his throat as he lets go of George’s rope, the smaller man falling face first into the sheets.

He pulls George’s hips up to arch him in the most beautiful way, grateful whines tumbling from his mouth and eyes rolling behind his lids. He’s so good, so pretty, Dream would strike every match for him and kiss down the screams.

He coats his digits in saliva and runs a flat palm along George’s back, whispering unintelligible praise.

There’s one finger, and then there’s bliss. George mewls and pushes back, chasing the pleasure for all he’s worth. It’s one finger,  _ one  _ fucking finger. It’s embarrassing, it really is, but he’s so full of sin pulled taught and he needs Chardonnay on his tongue more than he does oxygen. 

There’s two, then three, they twist this way and that. They pull back and forth, ghosting over that quivering gland so wickedly. George whines and whimpers and shudders, mind coming apart in fragments of sanity. There’s three, then two, then three. In, then out, knuckle deep, then barely there. There’s two, then one, then none.

George wastes no time in being petulant.

“Please!” He turns his head to watch Dream stroke himself, length slick with saliva. George’s eyes swim, Dream is so  _ big _ , big everywhere, it’s dizzying and he feels cherry nausea. “P’ease,” he says again, fighting to hold Dream’s razored orbs of lust coated green. “dick. Please. In.”

Dream’s teeth tug on his lips and he smirks, claiming a fistful of chocolate hair and shoving George’s face into the bed.

“Wow,” he drawls, tone soaked in derision. White wine and French lace on his tongue. “Look at that. Pretty boy can do nothing but beg for cock.” 

George writhes with humiliation and tears gather in translucent slivers. He doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, so he prays to Aphrodite instead; answered with the head of Dream’s cock resting on his hole. George whines, embarrassingly whorish, and Dream clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“I don’t know what you want, sweetheart. How about using that pretty voice of yours?” 

George is a king. He sits upon a throne of gold and crimson. He adorns a crown of silver and sky. Dream is a creator. He plants flowers of rebirth. He weaves souls of torment. George lets go of the final thread, and he is a slave.

“wan’ be fucked, wanna be- whore, oh  _ please _ , wan’ feel so full an’ walk- not, wan’ be a good- good for y-ou.” His words are slurred as they tumble from his tongue in a heap, ridiculously incoherent.

Dream holds himself together with the agony of a shattered nebula, muscles rigid as he smooths a hand over the small of George’s back. He presses in ever so gently, George trembles.

“George, sweetie? Listen to me, yeah? If you need me to stop, you-” 

“Gold.” George breathes into the crimson. “If- need to stop, gold.”

Dream rolls his shoulders. “Gold.” He affirms, testing the sound it taints the air with.

“ _ Please. _ ” 

The request is clear in the dense atmosphere and Dream’s nebula ruptures.

Aphrodite takes Lucifer’s hand and they begin their waltz over ruin and ash.

George cries out into satin as his body jerks forward, Dream is not gentle as he shoves organs out of the way to make room for himself. There’s fingers pulling the hair from George’s scalp and his neck is strained at an agonising angle. He can’t move. The rope burns against his flesh, his brain rattles around his skull with each remorseless thrust, colliding with his prostate in strikes of searing pleasure. It’s black ice and white fire, hellish and divine as saliva drips down his open mouth, jaw slack in a scream unable to pass.

Apparently, Dream is dissatisfied with his received silence.

“Speak, cockwhore,” He snarls and wrenches George’s head up, forcing his entire upper body off the bed. “wanna hear your silly fuckin’ words.” He tears apart George from a new angle, at this, the man  _ does  _ scream.

The sound scratches at his throat until it’s raw, tears spilling down his cheeks and hair tumbling over his eyes as his body is jerked back and forth in a ruthless cycle.

“ _ Oh-  _ p’ease p’ease p’ease p’ease,  _ oh god! _ oh  _ fuck! _ ” He sobs out in fractured wails.

“ _ God _ George, so fucking  _ tight _ ,” he accentuates the last word with particularly cruel thrust, soaking up the string of  _ yes yes yes  _ and  _ fuck fuck fuck  _ the action grants him. “Being so good for me sweetheart,” his voice drops to a low purr that rumbles in his throat. Soft thunder and smouldering lightning. “sallowing my cock so deep, such a filthy fucking cumslut, aren’t you?”

George sees hell and heaven collide; two lands that were unable to stay parted for the lifetimes they were commanded to in ancient scriptures. Shrill, convulsing wails fall from his mouth and his thrashes melt into nothingness once they meet pale rope.

“I said,” Dream hisses through his teeth, hand leaving tousled hair and seizing the back of George’s neck, large fingers closing around the flesh with ease. “ _ aren’t you?” _

“Y-es yes yes oh  _ god _ ,  _ yes,  _ cum- slut, f’lth-y!” George’s eyes writhe white in his skull and he draws the nonsensical words from splinters of his shattered mind. 

Dream hums in contentment of the statement and eases his pace to rest one hand on George’s stomach and the other firm over his mouth, hand becoming soaked in silver saltwater. 

He brings George to his lips and lets his voice fall to a rasp.

“Gonna fucking ruin you darling, gonna make you think about me for _ weeks _ . No one can fuck you this good, no one can do it ‘till you scream like a little bitch.” He thumbs away fresh tears and a conceited grin pollutes his voice with that accursed white wine. “I’m a fucking  _ god _ , and you’re  _ mine _ .” 

Maybe he went too far. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that last bit. Though neither of them find the morality to care.

Dream pushes his hips forward until their bodies slot together, pulling George back with a hand on his mouth. Below Dream’s left palm, a bulge swells under pearly skin, pulling the flesh translucent. Dream is washed with hubris and gnaws on his lips, smirking through filthy pride.

George thinks he might simply break apart right then and there; Dream’s cock so far inside him that it feels as though it’ll come out of his mouth at any second. His mind goes numb and his eyes roll back, spit drips onto the sheets below him. If he’s screaming, he can’t hear himself, though tears mix with the saliva on satin, so maybe he’s crying. Perhaps it’s both.

Pleasure scalds every nerve and his delicate frame vibrates with each brutal thrust. The heat in his stomach thrashes and crackles like a whip, his shrieks are muffled against Dream’s palm and he catches sight of euphoria. 

Stars die around him and he needs to cum, he  _ has _ to cum, he tries to warn Dream but the words are devoured by cries of raw pleasure scathed only by the devil himself. His brain short circuits and wires spew sparks until they burn out, body thrashing and flailing. There’s searing white, and then there’s nothing. Colourless ambiance devours him and he dissolves to unconscious nihility. 

  
  
  


Dream practically hits the roof when George’s eyes flutter open, he leans over from his spot on the edge of the bed and peppers soft kisses all over the man’s ashen face. He manages all but a groan of discontent, swatting eager lips away with shaky hands. Dream chuckles, taking hold of his hands gently, as if he were made of glass. George catches sight of the angry red marks adorning his wrists and groans again. He fucking hurts, the ache dull in every inch of his body. 

“Welcome back, Georgie.” 

George stares at him, eyebrows furrowed in fury. Though the satin throw that has been draped over his body comes to just under his nose, so he looks slightly more ridiculous than he intended.

“Do you have  _ any  _ idea how fucking  _ stupid  _ I am going to look when I walk?” He seethes, though it lacks true viciousness and he can’t help but reciprocate the fondness in Dream’s eyes, even more so when soft hands are trailed through his hair.

“I do.” He grins. “But you did so well, made me feel so good. Thank you.” It’s untouched sincerity and George’s eyes flutter shut, smoky ink lies soft against creamy skin.

Dream takes a bottle from the mahogany cabinet beside the bed. A liquid of royal violet diluted with milky white laps at the glass and he raises it to George’s parted lips. 

“For the aches.” He frowns. “Sorry about that.” 

“You’re such an idiot.” George mumbles as he falls into sleep. “I love you.”

Dawn rises, and the room is flooded with the pale amber of a new truth.

“I love you too.” Dream whispers it, and it’s stained with torment. If George heard, he doesn’t express it.

Dream waits until he can hear soft breaths, telltale of gentle slumber. He presses a kiss to George’s forehead and stands, turning the bottle until the label on the base is visible. 

_ 100% Chorus flower.  _

_ Induces repeat episodes of transient global amnesia and temporary visual, auditory and/or gustatory hallucinations. _

_ Class C3 poison. _

He peels the label away with careful fingers and sets the bottle back down silently, making his way towards the door and picking up his discarded cloak, draping emerald velvet over himself.

Dream looks over his shoulder at the king; so tranquil and ethereal, undoubtedly still littered with pretty bruises. His throat burns and he turns away. Aphrodite won’t pity a fallen angel, but he shall still ache for his faded lover.

This evening, George shall lose his crown. At least he will only remember being sober.

**Author's Note:**

> hi!  
> school has really been kicking my ass lately so this was a nightmare to write, i hope it isn’t too garbled :’)
> 
> i have a playlist inspired by this fic but the link won’t work for some reason smh  
> also i just realised some of the sentence spacing is a little off, it must’ve gotten messed up when i transferred it from a doc, my bad!
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading mwah
> 
> lots of love, bri <3


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